


are you hurting the one you love?

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Adultery, Divorce, Happy Ending, Hot Space Era, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Porn with Feelings, gay marriage is legal i guess whoooo, im not a lawyer dont sue me, it might not be legally correct but that's au magic babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: The band is working on Hot Space. John and Brian are filing for divorce.
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May
Comments: 30
Kudos: 107





	are you hurting the one you love?

It starts simply enough that John thinks it’ll all be easy.

He’s wrong; of course he’s bloody wrong. Somehow, in that moment, it doesn’t really matter. After everything, all he can feel is relief that he’s finally spoken his mind. Despite the legal proceedings looming before them, no matter how simple or complex, all he can feel is relief.

He sits down at the kitchen table across from Brian—Brian who he hasn’t seen in a day or two, Brian who doesn’t sleep in their bed anymore and usually spends his nights in the arms of a woman John has never met. Brian, who looks up and blinks in surprise when he sees John sitting across from him and gazing at him steadily.

John rests his hands on the wood of the table to hide the way his fingers are trembling. “I want a divorce,” he says, voice quiet but strong enough that he surprises himself.

Brian swallows. He blinks. “Okay,” he says.

And that’s how it starts.

He has a lawyer. Her name is Anna North.

“I’d advise you not to speak to him without legal council present,” she tells him during their first meeting. “It’s dangerous. In the heat of the moment you can say things you don’t mean, and he might use those things against you later. If you really want to go through with this, that’s the first step.”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead,” he murmurs.

She nods, eyes sympathetic. Her office is grey. She has succulents on her desk and a good view of the Thames. “Fortunately for you that’s what I’m here for, John,” she says quietly.

“I thought you’re just here to win the case.”

“Winning isn’t quite the same with things like this,” she says. “There aren’t really winners. I _am_ here to help you figure out what you want and then make sure you walk away with all of that. Does that make sense?”

He nods. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Good. We’re going to start a list, then. Tell me what you’d like to get out of this. We’re going to write them down, and then once we’re done we’ll rank them based on what you want the most. Alright?”

They make a list.

It’s not like it was all bad.

They had good times. Hell, they had great times; there were days when all it would take for John’s heart to start pounding was a glance in Brian’s direction. There were times when a few words from Brian could have him floating on air.

He’d never known love could make him feel so carefree. Being in love with him was easy, easy, easy. Everyone always told him it would be hard, but it wasn’t. Even as friends it was simple—it was satisfying to be in Brian’s presence and not want a single thing in return. He didn’t need a relationship. He didn’t even need love. This was enough.

Freddie told him he looked like he was glowing.

But then they’d started dating and then it was even _better_. It was a buzz beneath his skin constantly, and now when he smiled Brian’s way Brian smiled back; when his own breath hitched he could delight in the fact that he could see Brian’s chest do the same. They were moving and functioning as one unit and if he’d been struck dead any day of the week by any random circumstance he wouldn’t have minded. Nothing mattered anymore other than this burning, glowing feeling in his chest.

Love feels good.

Love feels good when it’s returned. It feels like a deep breath in and then out again. It feels like a fall.

They’d gone on a hundred dates—a thousand, probably—and every single one felt like the first time. Every time John pulled up at his flat in his shitty little Volkswagen he felt his heart pounding all over again. Every single time Brian slid into the passenger seat and smiled at him he felt his breath catch.

When he couldn’t get out of class Brian would come find him. He’d hand him a cup of tea and pull out a package of biscuits, and John could feel the strain leave his shoulders as he took his first real breath of the day.

It was innocent. It felt good.

And then all the clichés had grown stale and fallen away, and they were left with the sun-bleached, skeletal trunk of the thing, stark and white.

He stares at his copy of the list once he gets home. He lays it down on the kitchen table, the light hanging above it the only source of illumination in the entire dark, empty shadow of a home, and he reads it over.

Half of the things he’d written aren’t even things he can earn in court. That’s the thing. He wants his friends; he wants Queen to be okay; he wants them to keep writing together, keep touring together. He might not be able to look Brian in the eye, but if it’s what he needs to do in order to keep all of this from collapsing then he can try.

Brian isn’t even here. He’d packed a bag and gone to sleep somewhere else, taken half his clothes with him and left as fast as possible.

 _Good_ , John thinks. _Good, good, get him out of here, let him go far, far away._

He doesn’t sleep all night.

“Do you need anything?” Roger asks him late one night in the studio.

John smiles wryly. “He told you, then?”

“Come off it. You know he would.”

“It’s fine.” John rewinds the tape. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

They listen through the song again, front to back, Freddie’s voice weaving in and out of overdubbed harmonies. It’s good; it’ll probably get them another number one.

When John goes to rewind it again Roger stops him with a hand on his arm.

“What?” John asks, frowning.

Roger meets his eyes steadily. “I asked if you needed anything.”

“I don’t,” John says with a sigh. “Come on, Roger. This doesn’t need to change anything.”

“It’s going to. You know it’s going to.”

This time the look John gives him is a little closer to a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Roger huffs, frustrated. “It means I support you. Whatever you need to do, you should go ahead and do it. But it also means that this has every possibility of tearing Queen apart, and—”

“That’s what you care about?”

“Of course it is, and you should, too,” Roger tells him. “We’re your friends. Brian’s pulled some stupid shit, alright? But think of us when this is all falling apart. Please. Fred and I, we need you. We all need each other.”

John rolls his eyes. “You need Brian, too.”

“Of course we do,” Roger murmurs. He’s silent for a beat. “At least do me this favor, alright? Give me a call now and then.”

“This isn’t going to change anything,” John says again.

“Yeah. I know. Just do it anyway.”

He closes his eyes and sees the first day they met: Brian with his loose curls and nervous eyes, Roger and Freddie fading away in the background of his brain as his attention was suddenly taken, razor-focused in a way it rarely was. Brian had looked at him, really looked like he was trying to figure him out, and licked his lips slowly.

“Can you play?” he’d asked.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” John had replied.

Freddie had snickered. “That’s what you get, Brimi.” He’d turned his dark eyes to John then. “Go on, love. Let us see what you’ve got.”

The first day of the proceedings are hellish.

John gets the house (“He’s the one who chose it, anyway,” Brian mutters), Brian gets three of their four cars (“God knows he loved the things more than anything else,” John says quietly), and most of their stuff just goes to whoever bought it.

The music is where things get complicated.

At Brian’s side, Gordon shuffles his papers. “Now, of course we’ve proposed that Brian retains the majority of the music rights. Thrush Productions Ltd. will be divided into two separate companies. All of Mr. Deacon’s song rights will go into one, and Mr. May’s will go into another.”

North pauses, putting her pen down. “The problem with this split is that the rights are jointly shared,” she says. “How are we going to divide those?”

Gordon clears his throat. “Well, seeing as Mr. May has written the vast majority of those songs personally—”

“And Mr. Deacon has tweaked them,” North adds.

“You can’t make the argument that a tweak counts as songwriting credit,” Gordon says, a little disbelieving.

“I can and I will.”

“By that logic Roger Taylor and Freddie Mercury should also both have shares in Thrush.”

“Well, it depends on a song-by-song basis, doesn’t it?”

“We’ve always divided song credits up that way,” John adds quietly. “If two people work on a song together they each get a share in it. Whenever a song is written by Roger and Freddie together it gets credited to both Nightjar Productions and Goose Productions. This isn’t any different.”

“Except for the fact that there are multiple songs signed under Thrush Productions which I alone worked on,” Brian mutters.

“Gentlemen,” Gordon starts, “I’d advise against—”

“And there are plenty that only I have written on,” John replies. “That’s besides the point.”

“I don’t see how,” Brian says. “At least seventy percent of those writing credits are mine. You know that.”

“How do you propose we divide them, then?”

Brian looks to Gordon, who sighs and pushes his reading glasses up his nose. “Mr. May and Mr. Deacon will retain full rights to any songs they have written on their own. If any song was a joint effort the rights will be shared 50/50—”

“So a tweak in one of my songs earns you 50%?” John asks.

“Mr. Deacon, it’s only fair that—”

“I don’t see why you’re complaining, John,” Brian says mildly. “You’ve only got about ten songs to your name. This deal benefits you.”

“Fuck you.”

Gordon takes a breath. “Furthermore, the previously joint Deacon-May share of Raincloud Productions, Ltd. will be split according to song rights. Overhead makes up 20%, with half coming from Mr. May’s share and half coming from Mr. Deacon’s. Mr. Deacon will get 30%—"

“We object to those terms,” North says immediately. “That leaves Brian with 70% of the shares. There is no reason why all overhead costs should come out of my client’s share, let alone why Mr. May should get his stocks.”

“The previous shares were 20% overhead and 80% for the joint Deacon/May account.”

“I understand that,” North replies. “That’s why my client is advocating for a 40/40/20 split.”

“Raincloud is fed largely by works of Mr. May and Mr. Mercury,” Gordon starts.

“Yet each of us gets a 25% share,” John snaps. “Roger and Freddie both get the same amount. If you really think Brian deserves a bigger share than me—”

“It’s not about what he deserves, it’s about what’s—”

“—then by that logic Roger’s share should be diluted. By this math Brian flat out owns 30% of the company.”

“That’s fair. I’ve provided more music than you,” Brian says.

“How is that fair? Freddie’s share is only 20%. You’ll have ten percent more than him.”

“That’s his choice.”

“So you’re trying to cheat us out of our shares,” John says, mind reeling.

Brian huffs. “No, that’s not it. I’m giving you a good deal on your writing tweaks, aren’t I? You’re oversimplifying this.”

“Really? Because how I see it you’re leaving me with 20% of our shared half of the company, which leaves me—”

“It’s not that simple.”

“—Anna, check my math on this. That’s what, 10% of the overall shares?”

“20% of 50% of Raincloud Productions is an overall share of 10%,” Anna confirms.

“John,” Brian says levelly. “That’s millions of pounds a year. And that’s not even counting the writing credits you’re getting out of Thrush.”

John shakes his hand, standing up quickly. “That’s not the point and you know it.”

“How is that not the point?”

“You don’t own Queen,” he snaps. “You never have. I don’t care how much you want to.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, making brief eye contact with North. She nods and stands with him, closing her portfolio swiftly and tucking it under her arm as she leaves the conference room. “I’m not agreeing to your terms. You take your 20%, or you don’t get anything.”

“They’re my songs, John.”

“They’re _our_ songs, last I checked. They’re Queen’s songs. If you didn’t want to share them maybe you should never have joined the band in the first place.”

He walks out of the conference room, leaving Gordon sitting at the glass table. Brian stands quickly; John can hear him chasing after him. He barely makes it into the hallway before the door is banging against the wall, and when he whips around there Brian is, pacing toward him with a fierce glare on his face, his cheeks flushed with anger.

“That’s it?” Brian shouts after him, making quick work of the space between them.

“Yeah?” John spits.

“That’s it? You’re just gonna take what’s rightfully mine?”

“I don’t remember you owning shit that we’ve produced together.”

“But we weren’t together, were we?”

“Roger and Freddie each got—”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“I don’t know shit!” John shouts, and suddenly he’s pacing closer until they’re nose to nose, screaming into each other’s faces. “You know what I know? I know you took every single fucking thing from—”

“And you didn’t do the same!” Brian screams. “You’re too bloody perfect to be doing the same! You’re not a victim here, John!”

“You don’t get to have everything I worked for—”

“And you don’t get to decide you want it!” Brian’s eyes are wet now, and John can hear the crack in his voice even as he plows through it. “You never wanted any of this! That’s my music, and I have the rights to it!”

“ _We_ have the rights to it!” John snaps. “We’ve always shared it, 50/50! Half of that is—”

“They’re not your songs! If you wanted a single you’d have written a single! That doesn’t mean you get a share in all of mine!”

“Fuck you,” John snaps. He turns around and begins back down the hall toward the lifts where North is waiting. “Shove your singles up your ass.”

“You think this is yours? You didn’t do anything for me,” Brian shouts. “Everything I did I did on my own.”

“I’m glad you enjoy being on your own so much. Maybe you’ll write some good music for a change, now that you don’t have someone to write your shitty love songs for. Or, wait,” John adds as an afterthought, but it comes out cracked and dejected, “that’s what your mistress is for, isn’t she?”

The last thing he sees as he steps onto the elevator is Brian’s tear-stained face, half-defeated and half-furious. “I loved you,” Brian says, and he says it like a threat. “Don’t forget that.”

As soon as the lift’s doors close North hands him a tissue. “You’re crying,” she says when he looks at her in confusion.

Ne nods. He hadn’t really noticed. Now it’s impossible not to. A sob hitches in his chest and all at once he can’t stop it; North tuts and pulls him into her shoulder as he starts crying for real.

He takes deep breaths against the mounting feeling of panic in his chest, and when he manages to push it back into just simple devastation he leans back and wipes his eyes, struggling to get his sobs under control as the lift reaches the ground floor. “I don’t pay you enough,” he tells her.

She laughs humorlessly. “With the way things are going I don’t think you really have the money to spare.”

“You think so?”

“Only joking,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “The adultery is a big issue, you know. You can always file for emotional damages if you think it’s worth it. If you don’t win the company shares you can at least get a payout for that.”

“Do you think it is?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

He thinks about Brian crying in the hallway. He thinks about Brian in the studio. He thinks about Brian getting into the passenger seat of his car and smiling at him nervously, young and full of life.

He thinks about Brian and this nameless woman who lingers like a phantom in his head. _I loved you._ He doesn’t anymore. He still knows how to hit John where he’s sore, though.

“I want it all,” he murmurs, and North nods.

A pap snaps a photo of him as he leaves the building, his jaw clenched and his eyes cold, North at his side with her face carefully blank. He only knows about it because he sees it on the cover of the _Sun_ the next morning, printed in grainy newspaper color, a bright red circle surrounding his left hand where it’s hooked over the door handle of the office.

 _John Deacon’s Missing Wedding Bling!_ the headline reads, subtitled _Did Queen Bassist pawn his wedding band?_

John sees it in the studio where Paul has conveniently left out a copy. Brian isn’t around, and John snatches the wretched thing up before he can materialize to read it.

“Don’t bother,” Roger says from the leather sofa at the back of the mixing room. When John starts and turns to look at him he blows a lazy smoke ring and rolls his eyes. “He’s already seen it, git. It’s all over the damned streets, isn’t it?”

“You know they print whatever the hell they want,” John says.

“They’re like sharks. You’d better stop dropping blood into the water.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks, flipping the paper open.

_After a fiery feud following adultery and deceit, Queen bassist John Deacon has reportedly hit rock bottom. With soon-to-be-ex husband Brian May filing for divorce—and taking the lion’s share of the couple’s wealth with him—Deacon has resorted to pawning their worldly possessions to fund his alcohol addiction. His most recent sale? His wedding band, given to him by May on their wedding date in August of 1975. “He’s crashing and burning,” a close friend of the couple commented. “He still loves Brian. He doesn’t know what to do now that—_

“John,” Roger snaps. “Are you listening?”

“What?” John asks, still skimming the text.

“I said if you keep giving them something to chew on they aren’t going to let go,” Roger says impatiently. He bounces to his feet, pacing over to John’s side. “I mean, really? Your wedding ring? You didn’t think it would be a good idea to hold onto that?”

John rolls his eyes. His leather jacket is the same one he’d worn to their meeting the other day, and he digs through the zippered pocket, hand closing around the familiar warm metal of his wedding band. He displays it to Roger in the center of his palm and watches as Roger’s face relaxes. “You really thought I’d pawn it for booze? I thought you knew better than to trust the tabloids.”

Roger rolls his eyes halfheartedly. “Brian’s the one you should be telling.”

“The fact that he believes I’d even do something like that is proof that divorce is the right choice for us,” John says with a rueful shake of his head.

“He’s sensitive,” Roger argues. “You know how he can be better than anyone. He’s always the first to believe bad news.”

The door behind them bangs open and Freddie blusters in, midway through shrugging out of his jacket. “Sorry, darlings,” he calls. “Late again. Traffic. You know.”

“Traffic was fine today, Fred,” Roger says, amused.

“Not for me!”

“You’ve been late to every rehearsal for the last ten years. At this point we’ve gotten used to it.”

“Yes! Traffic is always _so_ horrible.” He pauses, looking around. “Where’s Brimi?”

“Not here,” John says, a little unnecessarily.

Roger shrugs. “He didn’t call ahead. He might just be taking a day off, though. It’s not like him to be late.”

Freddie shrugs. “Well, if he’s not here we might as well plug on without him. Back Chat?”

“Practically done,” Roger says. “We could work on mixing it, if you want.”

“We don’t have Brian’s bits yet.”

John shrugs. “Let me play them.”

The two of them pause, staring at him uneasily. “You?” Freddie says slowly.

John shrugs again. “I don’t want a solo in it. That’s not news to anyone. Let me do a little backing stuff and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Red isn’t here.”

“I’ll use a strat. Red wouldn’t be right for this, anyway,” he says quickly, stripping off his jacket and heading toward the studio’s entrance. When they don’t follow immediately he looks back. “Well?”

Freddie is frowning. “It’s a bit of a breach of trust,” he says slowly. “Isn’t it? That’s supposed to be his thing.”

“Guys, if he isn’t here to do it then he isn’t here to do it,” John sighs. “Alright? I want to get this album done sometime within the next decade, if it’s all the same to you. Now can we please just get on with it?”

Freddie and Roger share another look. Neither of them say anything; a moment later Roger starts after John toward the door, Freddie following on his heels.

Brian may not be in the studio, but he manages to make it to the conference room just fine.

“Nice job phoning ahead for rehearsal,” John tells him as he and North sit down.

Brian rolls his eyes. “I thought it wouldn’t matter, seeing as I’m an expendable member.”

“You’re not the one getting screwed out of the band by his own husband.”

“Soon to be ex,” Brian replies crisply.

“Gentlemen,” Gordon says, “please. Let’s get started. The sooner we figure this out the sooner we get out of here.”

“Right,” North says. “I want to clarify these shares, then. Before we get started I figured that would be best for everyone.” She looks between the three of them until Brian and John both nod hesitantly. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Gordon murmurs.

“Alright then. So, as you’re presenting it right now Brian is set to get the majority of Raincloud Productions while John gets more than his equal share of Thrush.”

“Yes,” Brian says, nodding earnestly.

Gordon sends him a warning look. “We believe this deal is fair,” he says coolly.

“Fair to whom?” North asks.

“Fair to your client. It will be nearly impossible to divide the song credits in a way that is fair. It only makes sense that one party gets more of one company while the other gets more of the other.”

“And are you aware that those companies are _not_ worth nearly the same value?” North asks.

Brian frowns even as Gordon replies smoothly, “There is a slight difference.”

“The slight difference,” John chimes in, “is about three hundred thousand pounds a year.”

“We didn’t think that difference was significant.”

“In what world—”

North shoots him a quick look, and he falls silent quickly. “We did the math last night of exactly how many songs under Thrush Productions Mr. Deacon has had any part in. I don’t want to go through it item by item. I figured we could do that later. For now our estimate is at around forty percent.”

“I wrote more than him,” Brian argues weakly. “That’s more than fair.”

“Giving him forty percent of the lesser company and taking half his shares of the larger one is fair?”

Brian frowns and shoots Gordon a look.

Gordon huffs. “Anna, I’d ask you who exactly your financial expert in all of this is.”

“I am,” John says levelly. “I handled the band’s finances for years.”

“You’re hardly a trained businessman.”

“You pick up enough tricks when you’re managing one of the world’s supergroups for over a decade,” John says dismissively, turning to Brian. “I only have one question for you. Who _exactly_ advised you about this deal? Because I know you didn’t come up with it yourself.”

“I’d ask you to refrain from addressing my client directly,” Gordon snaps.

“I’m talking to my _husband_ ,” John snaps back, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Brian shift in his chair. He looks at him again and falls into the warm hazel of his eyes as easily as he ever has. He knows the set tension of his jaw and the determination in the line of his shoulders; he knows it all to well, but he’s just as familiar with the uncertainty that lingers in the corners of his eyes. “Brian, no offense, but this isn’t your kind of move. You don’t try to grab things like this. You’re fair.”

“This is fair,” Gordon says.

John ignores him. “You might deserve a bigger chunk of this band than me,” he starts.

“’Might’ being the operative word,” North adds quickly.

“Hell, you might even think you deserve more than Roger. But there is no way that you think your contributions are worth 30% more than Freddie’s are.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Gordon says.

“Is it yours?” John counters. “Is it any of ours? If you want fair then you already know what you have to do. This isn’t it.”

“That was a stirring speech,” Gordon says. “Really, it was. But it doesn’t change the fact that my client has requested legal council for this very reason. He doesn’t have the background to know what’s best for everyone. Frankly, John, neither do you.”

“Maybe not, but he’s entitled to his own decisions,” North supplies.

“Of course he is. His decision was to hire me to argue on his behalf.”

Brian still hasn’t teared his eyes away from John’s. It’s this that snaps him out of it; he glances down at the blank notepad in front of him, then back up again. “I trust Gordon’s council,” he says quietly. “I hired him for a reason.”

John scoffs. “You can’t seriously be behind this.”

“I am. I still believe this is fair. I have no reason to doubt it.”

“I just gave you a dozen reasons.”

“And he has come to the conclusion that none of them hold water,” Gordon says. “Anna, I have to ask that you control your client. There’s a reason the two of us are here, and it’s to streamline this process. If we fall into any more tangents like this it’ll take us years to sort this mess out.”

John opens his mouth to snap at him, but North subtly shakes her head. He takes it to mean what it does; they’ll talk about it later. This particular battle isn’t one worth fighting.

He makes eye contact with Brian once more. The same doubt is lingering in the corners of his eyes, along with a kind of misery John hadn’t even noticed before. He looks tired.

He only meets his eyes for a moment before breaking eye contact first. That little sign of submission should be satisfying. It isn’t.

“In that case,” North says, tapping her pen twice against her pad, “my client is arguing for 100% of the shares of Raincloud Productions, Limited. We’re also filing for emotional damages up to—”

“You can’t do that!” Brian explodes.

“And you can’t try to get thirty percent,” John snaps.

“Gentlemen, please,” Gordon says. The two of them fall silent, and he turns to North. “Go ahead, then. Why do you think you’re entitled to that?”

North flips a page in her file and begins speaking. Across the table, Brian slumps lower in his chair.

He signs the paperwork on Goldfinch Productions, Ltd. that evening.

“The rights can be transferred over in due time,” North says as he does it. “Thrush Productions will ultimately be dissolved. As for Raincloud—”

“We can figure that out later,” John murmurs. “I doubt Freddie and Roger will be onboard with what he’s trying to negotiate once they hear about it.”

She sighs. “Are you not jumping the gun on this?”

“He needs to know I’m serious.” He trails off the ‘n’ of his last name in a satisfyingly thick line before capping the fountain pen.

“It doesn’t look very serious. As of right now the company’s income is in the negatives. Goldfinch doesn’t own any song rights, John.”

He smiles at her. “It will.”

“And how’s that?”

“I’m going to be putting out a number one single.”

It’s late, but the lights in Garden Lodge are all on. That’s how John knows he’s welcome.

He hits the doorbell on the gate and a moment later the speaker crackles. “Yes?” Joe’s voice says.

“It’s me.”

“John?”

“Yep.”

“Freddie didn’t say you were coming.”

“It’s a surprise.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then the gate clicks as it unlocks.

He pushes through and paces up the path through the lush garden. The front door is already open, Freddie silhouetted in the light from the house. “Surprise, indeed,” he calls dryly.

John shrugs, then holds up a bottle of vodka. “A good one?”

“Get in here,” Freddie says with a smirk.

The house is as cozy as always. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace and he can still smell the heavy fragrance of spices hanging in the air from dinnertime. Two of the cats are sleeping on the sofa, and a one Roger Taylor is seated on the armchair across from them. He looks up as John enters.

“Rog,” John says. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Likewise,” Roger says. He raises a glass in toast. “We’re drinking to the end of the world.” He offers John a goofy smile before draining it.

John paces closer. He cracks open the bottle of vodka and refills Roger’s glass. “End of the world?”

“End of all things,” Roger says, nodding his face. He looks serious suddenly. “How was court?”

“That’s what I’m here to talk about,” John says.

“I don’t think that’s really a good idea.”

“Listen,” John says. He holds Freddie’s gaze as Freddie paces back into the room. “I don’t want either of you taking sides. I never did. You shouldn’t have to be involved in me and Brian’s marriage or legal issues or any of that.”

“Then…”

“Things have changed. He’s making it about you now, too.”

Freddie’s eyes widen. “How so?”

“It’s about Raincloud.”

Freddie frowns, turning to the doorway. “Phoebe?” he calls.

Phoebe appears from the kitchen a moment later. “Yeah?”

“You should be here for this. You know I don’t have a mind for numbers.”

“What’s going on?” Phoebe asks with a frown, taking a seat on the couch at Roger’s side. When John raises the bottle to him he brushes him off.

John refills Freddie’s glass, then takes the empty tumbler Freddie hands him and fills it for himself before taking a long sip. “You know how we each have equal shares in Raincloud? Twenty percent each, with us each paying five percent toward overhead?”

“Yeah,” Freddie says slowly.

“Brian’s trying to dilute mine.”

“By how much?”

John laughs humorlessly and drains his glass. “He wants 30%.”

“30% of your shared stocks?”

“He wants 30% overall.”

Roger’s eyes widen.

“He wants,” Freddie says slowly, then looks to Phoebe.

Phoebe clears his throat. “30% including overhead, right?”

“No. The way he’s written it, he’s not going to pay overhead at all. Our shared ten percent of the overhead comes out of my share. You each retain your quarter of the shares, but since you each pay five percent overhead as well that leaves—”

Phoebe lets out a breath through his teeth. “20% overhead, Freddie gets 20%, Roger gets 20%, Brian’s share is inflated to 30%--”

“Jesus Christ,” Roger hisses.

“—and John’s share is decreased to 10%.”

They sit in silence for a long beat. John drains another two fingers of vodka.

“What about Queen Productions?” Phoebe asks hesitantly.

John sighs. “We haven’t talked about it yet, but I’m guessing it’s going to be the same argument. I’m losing most of Thrush, too. We’re splitting it up based on who wrote on what, so it’ll turn out about the same. Maybe that’s fair. I really haven’t written—”

“Bullshit,” Freddie says quickly. “That’s bullshit. We all agreed to 25% shares when we started the damned company.”

“But maybe that’s not fair anymore.”

“I don’t want to hear it. We couldn’t do the things we do without you and Roger. It’s not about nitpicking who wrote what. You know that.”

“We’re all an equal part of Queen,” Roger adds. “John, it’s not about writing credits. If it were then Freddie should hold even more shares than Brian does. This is just greed.”

“It’s possible that he’s trying to overshoot the amount so he can get a more favorable number in court,” Phoebe supplies. “I doubt he really thinks he’s going to have 30% just handed to him.”

“Even so,” Freddie grumbles. “It’s a dick move. He’s got to know that.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“What are you going to do, John?”

John huffs out a laugh. “I’m coming after him for everything. Maybe he’s trying to overshoot it, but if he wants to play that game I can do the same. It’s not going to work, but either way it’ll irritate him.”

Freddie smiles. “There’s the petty little bitch we know and love.”

“Speaking of,” John adds. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you guys.”

“What’s that?”

He takes a deep breath. “I want Back Chat to be a single.”

Freddie blinks.

Roger glances at him, then turns back to John quickly. “Done,” he says.

“What?” Freddie asks.

Roger shrugs. “It’s a band decision, right? Well, I agree with him. It’s a good song, first off. Second, you know John hasn’t gotten nearly as many singles as he should have. He only barely got Another One Bites The Dust. It was Brian who argued against that decision.”

“Which,” John adds quickly, “Brian’s new limited company now has 50% of the rights to.”

“Where are the other 50%?” Freddie asks.

“With my new limited, as soon as the negotiation goes through. Goldfinch Productions was founded earlier today.”

“You sneaky bitch,” Freddie says with a wry grin. “That’s what you’re going to do? Sign the rights to Back Chat to Goldfinch?”

John shrugs. “Yeah, I figured we could just split it among the three of us. Can we still publish it as a Queen song if it isn’t under Queen’s label?”

“You could if you make Queen Productions’ share of it severely reduced,” Phoebe muses. “Brian can hardly complain. He doesn’t even play on the track.”

“Then that’s that,” John murmurs. “A suitable end to the whole thing, I think.”

“This isn’t over yet,” Phoebe says quietly.

“No. No, I suppose it’s not,” John replies. “Either way, I need something to go right for me.”

Freddie chews his lip. “Alright. Alright, if you’re sure then we’ll do it. Back Chat will be a single. We can work out the copyright in the morning. You can sleep here tonight if you want.”

John nods, relief coursing through his veins.

“How are you going to tell Brian? He’s not going to take that conversation lying down.”

John thinks it over for a long minute. “I’ll have my lawyer email him,” he settles on finally.

He and Roger drink and dance to Lennon albums for half the night, and when they finally fall into the bed in Freddie’s guest bedroom and into an immediate drunken sleep, it feels just like it used to in the early days of touring when they were still long-haired and dead broke.

And he dreams.

Brian is hovering over him, John’s hand clasped in his. He traces his thumbnail across John’s palm feather-light and then runs the pad of his thumb downward over the tendons on the inside of his wrist. John shivers as goosebumps break out across his arm.

And then Brian’s eyes are back on him, warm and fascinated like he’s picking him apart, and he ducks to press a kiss against the underside of John’s jaw.

“Alright?” he murmurs, carding gentle fingers through John’s hair, and John sighs.

“Yeah. ‘S good.”

His body is aching and glowing and floating and sleep is tugging at him in a nonsensical, heavy way. Contentedness is intoxicating him, blurring his thoughts and moving through his veins, rushing through him with every heartbeat.

Brian lowers himself until he’s laying half on top of him, and he laughs when John hums and rolls until they’re curled together, their faces inches apart.

Another memory tries to creep in, then. He distantly smells the familiar combination of flowers and cleaning products that he always associates with his mother’s dining room. Brian is sitting across the table from him, eyes panicked. He sends John a helpless smile and John stifles a laugh.

Six months later he was sitting in that same seat while his mother doted on him as he waited for news from the hospital. Brian had been recovering from his operation for two days, delirious with fever.

But he doesn’t want to think about that.

His mind jumps back—back to their bedroom, back to the two of them curled up together. He runs his palm across the smooth planes of Brian’s back, still slightly clammy from sweat. He runs his hand across the still-pink crescent-shaped scar on his upper arm, just where an injection would go, and Brian leans forward to kiss him when he notices what he’s doing.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Back Chat makes him five hundred thousand pounds overnight. 

He doesn’t even bother going into the studio the next day. Jim Beach gives him the news over the phone, and he doesn’t bother getting out of bed. With the way his head is pounding he doesn’t really blame himself, either.

“He’ll be livid when you see him, no doubt,” Freddie says matter-of-factly as he brings John a cup of black coffee. “Hell, he’ll be angry with us, too.”

“You’ll have to bear the brunt of it,” John replies. He accepts the coffee gratefully. “I’m not supposed to see him.”

Freddie pauses. “No?”

“No. You’re not really supposed to talk to your partner while you’re going through legal proceedings. They think it can damage your case.”

“What do you think?” Freddie asks.

John frowns up at him. “What?”

“You just said that’s what they think. So what do you think about it?”

John’s frown deepens, and he blinks. “That’s what I think, too. It just came out odd. I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

Freddie tilts his head, studying him with a sad slant to his mouth.

Brian looks like shit the next time John sees him; Brian looks fucking exhausted, like he’d rather be dead than sitting across the glass table that’s becoming a little too familiar in the glass room that’s feeling more and more like somewhere John is never going to be able to escape. He sits in his leather swivel chair beside his lawyer and looks at his husband whose heart he thoroughly and deliberately broke for good last night, and he wants to scream.

North clears her throat. “We’ll pick up where we left off in the splitting of the shares of Raincloud Productions Limited. As was stated last time, my client is vying for full shares in the entire Deacon/May percentage of the company.”

“Denied,” Gordon says immediately. “You know we can’t agree to that.”

“And we can’t agree to your offer. Thus, negotiations.”

“I’d say you have no legal grounds to stand on,” Gordon says, “seeing as your client doesn’t require the use of Raincloud in the first place. Just last night he was willing to go over my client’s head—”

“Those were special circumstances.”

“Which neatly worked around the legal battle we’re currently dealing with. It was an underhanded move, just like it’s an underhanded move to try to take 100% of the shares of a company he barely even contributed to.”

“That’s a lie,” Brian says, his voice rough.

Gordon looks at him sideways. “Mr. May, you shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care. It’s a lie.” He looks up and meets John’s gaze, and the warm hazel of his eyes is completely flat and lifeless. “He worked to build what we created, same as I did.”

“Brian—”

“I don’t care.” He swallows, then stands quickly. “Give him 25% overall. I don’t care.”

“Brian!” Gordon calls.

Brian ignores him. The door bangs against the wall as he leaves, walking quickly toward the bathroom, and John doesn’t even think before he gets up to follow him.

“John, you should stay here,” North says.

He shakes his head and leaves the room quickly, jogging down the hall until he reaches the bathroom.

He hears retching inside before he even opens the door.

Brian didn’t bother locking it. John turns the latch behind himself before making his way to Brian’s side, pulling his hair back for him carefully and running a hand across his shoulder. Brian just gets more tense beneath his touch, his shoulders shaking. John thinks he’s sobbing until he hears the rush of his breath, deep and quick.

Again he acts without thinking, going to his knees at Brian’s side on the grimy bathroom floor and tucking his face into Brian’s neck so that Brian can feel his breath against his skin. He keeps the rhythm slow and soothing, resisting the pounding of Brian’s heart against his own chest or the way his breathing is getting thinner with panic.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs.

“Can’t,” Brian says, too loud in the space, his voice thin and cracking.

“You can. Focus on it. Come on, listen.”

Slowly, slowly, Brian’s breathing evens out. _That’s_ when the sobbing starts, and John holds him even closer.

And he smells familiar, is the thing. He’s a familiar shape in John’s arms. His warmth feels the same as it always has, and his curls tickle John’s nose the same way they always have, and God help him but the minute Brian starts crying into his shoulder he feels his own heart break.

He doesn’t understand how they’ve come to this.

He holds Brian closer and lets him cry, pushing his own tears away until he can’t anymore, until all he can do is hide his face against Brian’s neck and hold himself perfectly still against the sobs trying to climb their way up his throat. It’s enough to make him want to panic too, because he doesn’t understand it—he doesn’t understand how fast the time flew by. He doesn’t understand how it felt like just yesterday that he was falling in love, obsessing over every new facet of Brian’s heart he discovered, trying to work out the great puzzle that is his soul and thoughts and the way he loves.

And now here they are, crouched on the dirty floor of a bathroom, clinging to each other even as they pay lawyers to tear everything they built together up into equal shares.

It takes him a long minute to realize Brian is even speaking at all. He’s barely murmuring between sobs, and it takes John a long moment to even decipher what he’s saying. “If you’re only here to comfort me because you feel guilty then I don’t want it,” he gets out, then contradicts himself by holding John even closer. “I don’t want it, okay? I don’t want it. You can go.”

“It’s not about that,” John says, voice cracking halfway through. He feels sick all of a sudden. “We were—you’re my friend.”

“I don’t want you here if you don’t mean it.”

“Of course I mean it.”

Brian lets out a sound that might be a laugh. “That’s almost worse.”

“Of course I mean it,” John says again, mostly to himself. “I love you. I can’t stand the sight of you, but I still love you.”

Brian is silent for a long moment. “You don’t get to say that to me,” he says finally.

“What am I supposed to do? Lie?”

“Yes,” Brian says. He sniffles and leans back. He stands and wipes his face, checking his reflection in the mirror. “Yes. Of course you should lie. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

He walks out.

John leans back against the walls, eyes aching and head spinning, and feels suddenly exhausted to his very bones.

They’d gotten married in August. Their trip to Ridge Farm Studios had been fruitful in more ways than one.

Roger and Freddie had arranged everything, finding a little church nearby with a discreet priest and driving into town to get the marriage license. They didn’t have suits—hadn’t thought to bring any, as impulsive as the whole thing was—but Roger wove them big flower crowns out of peonies and Freddie threw rice and loudly (drunkenly) sang wedding songs as they’d walked back to the farm, and it had been perfect anyway.

It was a simple affair, but it was perfect.

And then when Freddie, Roger and the rest of the Queen entourage had gone to Rockfield Studios a few days later, John and Brian had driven off further into Wales. Brian had found a rental, a little cottage overlooking the sprawling countryside with a fireplace in the bedroom and a reflecting pool in the back. He’d blown the rest of his cash from the Trident contract that was set to expire, and they’d stayed there together for a honeymoon. They’d played guitar by the pool and lived off fruit and cheese and made love slow and lazy in the pile of quilts on the bed with all the windows open to let the summer heat in, and it had been wonderful.

It had felt like being reborn: reborn as a husband, reborn as a star. He’d felt remade.

John spends their sixth anniversary contemplating their divorce as he sits on the roof of the hotel where he’d rented a room once sleeping in a bed that still smelled like Brian began to drive him insane. He smokes his way through a pack of cigarettes and kills a good portion of a handle of vodka, and once his thoughts quiet into a dull murmur he goes to bed.

They put Las Palabras De Amor on the b-side of Back Chat for the Japan release. He’s not sure what’s worse: that now Brian is guaranteed to get some of the royalties anyway, that the disc is essentially him and Brian asking each other to sit down and talk like adults played on a never-ending loop, or that some poor fans are going to have to listen to the wretched things in the first place.

“You’re on suicide watch,” Freddie tells him conversationally over a cup of espresso.

John’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You heard,” Freddie says, sipping his cup delicately. At John’s expression he rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me that’s news.”

“How is it not?”

“Someone spotted you on the roof of the Regency the other day.”

“I wasn’t going to jump,” John says disbelievingly.

“Mm.”

“I have so much to live for. Divorce litigation, legal fees, our next bloody tour…”

Freddie snorts. “What were you doing at the Regency, anyway? I thought you didn’t want to talk to your dearly beloved.”

John frowns. “What?”

“Were you not there to see Brian?”

That has him blinking. “Brian’s staying at the Regency?”

“Oh.” Freddie says flatly. “Oh. You two are really ridiculous, you know that?”

It’s not like he can blame Freddie for thinking so. Of course Brian would check in to the Regency. It’s the only hotel in town they haven’t fucked in at some point.

“Why are you staying in a hotel then, darling?” Freddie asks. “I thought you got the house.”

“Is that what Brian said?”

“You can’t really think he doesn’t talk about the proceedings with us,” Freddie says dryly. “I thought that’s what you meant when you told us you didn’t want me and Roger taking sides.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John mutters. “I’m not upset about it.”

“Well?” Freddie prompts. “What are you doing in a hotel, then? Are you finally getting yourself a mistress?”

John rolls his eyes. “Do I seem the type?” he asks dryly, and Freddie huffs out a laugh. “No. I can’t sleep in the damned house. I’m selling it the first chance I get.”

“Too many bad memories?”

“Too many happy ones,” he mutters.

Freddie sobers quickly, nodding to himself. “Well,” he says. “House or not, it doesn’t change the fact that the tabloids think you’re one bad day away from throwing yourself off the roof of the building—”

“Which isn’t true,” John adds quickly.

“Nonetheless,” Freddie says over him, “loathe be I to turn away a friend in need.”

“What?” John says flatly.

“You’re coming to stay with me at Garden Lodge.”

“Freddie, I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Darling,” Freddie says grandly, “shut up. You’re coming. We have more than enough room—”

“You have three people and ten cats.”

“And eight bedrooms!” Freddie finishes for him.

“I can’t burden you with looking after me.”

“It’s not a burden.”

“I don’t want to bring you all down, anyway.”

“You’ve been bringing me down since the day I met you,” Freddie says gleefully. “Listen, Deaky. Ever since the day you entered that audition hall as a knobby, dove-like little pushover of a nineteen-year-old it has been my duty in life to protect you from harm and strife. Let me do my job.”

John raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. Freddie’s grin just stretches wider.

John moves into Garden Lodge.

Freddie sleeps in the master bedroom at one end of the second floor, and Joe and Phoebe each have a room before the staircase. John claims a room downstairs that’s closest to the music room. He doesn’t bring much, but when he takes his Rickenbacker out from its case and rests it against the window seat behind Freddie’s concert grand piano it feels right.

“I haven’t seen that one in a while,” Freddie comments from the doorway.

John looks up and meets his soft smile. “I thought I’d bring it out for old time’s sake. Maybe it’ll help inspire something new.”

Freddie laughs softly. “Newer than what we’re doing right now?”

“Yes.” He thinks. “Or no. I don’t know. Something different, I guess.”

The house is warm and inviting as always, and he finds it easy to fall into the cycle of life: sprawling out on the sofa with a book while Freddie bangs away at the piano, taking the Rolls Royce out with Phoebe to run errands, helping Joe chop vegetables in the kitchen. He sleeps like the dead his first night, and with Oscar and Tiffany curled up on the other half of his bed he finds it difficult to miss the warm presence of someone else.

Certain memories needle at him when he’s at Garden Lodge.

Thoughts of Japan are hard to ignore. Freddie fell in love with the country when they’d toured there so many years ago, and his house is a reflection of that. Scarcely a single room exists that isn’t decorated with art or furniture that reminds him vividly of wandering through Kyoto with Freddie at his side.

He does his best to ignore memories of chasing Brian through the gardens surrounding their hotel, both of them giggling like children. He tries to forget how he’d worried as Brian had grown thinner and thinner, complaining of stomach aches and a pain in his arm.

It’s Japan, but it’s Montreux, too—framed photos of Lac Leman in the second floor hallway, a stash of Cornalin in the pantry, an old sketch of the Quai Des Fleurs lying among a pile of bills and magazines. And that’s as big an issue as anything.

“Do you ever think about going to Montreux?” John asks him at one point.

Freddie laughs, surprised. “Montreux? Darling, why? I thought you hated it there.”

“I just thought maybe it would do us all some good.”

“Well, maybe we can schedule it for the next album.”

Whenever that’s going to be. _If_ it’s even going to happen at all.

They wait for him, but Brian doesn’t come to the conference room the next day.

If Gordon is flustered by it, he does a good job hiding it. He certainly doesn’t seem to know where Brian might be, but he carries on advocating for the previously argued shares regardless. Without those dead hazel eyes staring him down across the table John is content to sit back and let the two attorneys debate amongst themselves.

It’s both better and worse.

Without Brian there it feels like the humanity of it has been somehow stripped away. He can’t tell if he’s upset about the clinical nature of it, or if he’s relieved that the visceral pain is no longer quite so hard to ignore.

He avoids the studio as much as he can. He learns later that day that it’s really no use. Brian hasn’t been there, or at least Freddie hasn’t seen him. Maybe he doesn’t feel like there’s a need for it. The album is all but completed.

Brian doesn’t come the next day, either.

And that’s when memories start flooding back again: Brian upset about dropping his doctorate, Brian sleeping all day after he got out of the hospital with an arm that refused to cooperate, Brian quiet and withdrawn in the weeks before John decided to just bite the bullet and hand him the divorce papers, Brian panicking on the bathroom floor. That’s when the worry starts to set in.

“Have you heard from Brian?” he asks Freddie quietly over dinner.

“I’m in his confidences,” Freddie says quickly. “Yours, too.”

“I’m not looking for details. I just want to know if you’ve heard from him.”

Freddie puts his fork down delicately. “What do you mean? I thought you’ve been in court.”

“He stopped showing up.”

“You don’t think—”

“I just want to know if he’s alright,” he says firmly.

Freddie is very, very still for one long moment. “I’ll have Roger check up on him,” he says smoothly.

He’d almost lost Brian after his second tour, and he knows it.

They hadn’t been together long, but he’d known him well enough to be able to spot the difference. He was getting worn out too fast during the day; he wasn’t eating enough; he looked haggard half the time and falsely cheerful the other half.

When he’d gone and turned yellow and collapsed the second he’d stepped off the stage after a show John had felt his own heart stop.

He knows he takes things and people for granted because more than once he has experienced the moment of realizing it; seeing something he’s had for so long in a new light and assigning it new value makes him cherish it that much more, and he has half a mind to resent himself for that. When Brian, reliably gentle and steady—when Brian had fallen ill, John had been suddenly reminded of how lucky the bond between them was. The silliest little things could come between them. One dirty needle, and he’d nearly lost the love of his life.

He thinks about that now, late into an insomnia-driven night punctuated with refills of tea, and all at once he can’t sit there any longer.

He sneaks out of the house and out the gate, unlocking his car and heading off in the direction of Roger’s house. It’s not a long drive, and when he gets there there’s a light on in the living room. It’s not late—it’s only two—and he’s sure he hasn’t woken him. He rings the doorbell without hesitation.

There’s no answer. He rings again.

Footsteps come closer. Roger’s face peers out from a window before the door unlocks and swings open. “Deaks, it’s not really a great time.”

“Sorry. I should have phoned. I just wanted to check if you’d seen Brian recently.”

Roger winces. “Yeah, I talked to him.”

“What’s going on, then? I figured he didn’t want to see me, but I’ve been worried. Is he alright?”

“He’s not really doing the best, John. Honestly, I don’t really know if you have the right to be concerned when a lot of his mood is because of you.”

John takes a slow breath, then lets it out again. “You have to know I had no real choice,” he murmurs. “ _He_ has to know that.”

“John, now isn’t really the time,” Roger says quietly.

“It’s not what I wanted. I don’t want his shares. I just want him to know that he can’t take mine. I didn’t want to take away everything from him.”

“I know,” Roger murmurs. “I know, alright? But he’s—Brian’s always taken things like this hard.”

“I don’t know how the hell you got through your divorce so easily,” John says. “I don’t understand it.”

Roger winces again. “John,” he starts.

“I know. It’s my own fault.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it until his scalp aches. “I got us into this mess. I just love him so much. I still care about him.”

“We should talk about this tomorrow,” Roger mutters, and that’s when John catches movement deeper in the house.

Brian has appeared from the living room. His hair is a mess, his eyes bruised and sunken. He’s wearing a wrinkled old t-shirt from their first tour, and one of Roger’s heavy afghans is wrapped around his shoulders to ward off a non-existent chill. 

Roger frowns and turns to see what John is looking at. When he catches sight of Brian he sighs in defeat and stands aside, gesturing to John to come inside and closing the door behind him. Roger and Brian share a long look, and without another word Roger starts down the hall toward the kitchen, not turning around to look back.

John studies his husband—the bruises beneath his eyes, the limp texture to his curls, the sag in his shoulders. He looks pale and desaturated, like he’s somehow been grey-washed.

“You look like shit,” Brian mutters quietly, breaking eye contact, and John can’t help the huff of laughter that he lets out. “What’s this about? I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

John thinks back to their argument in the hallway all those days ago. “I’ve always been a bad liar,” he says hesitantly.

Brian freezes, then shakes his head ruefully. “You can’t say that kind of thing to me anymore. You lost that right when you decided to serve me divorce papers.”

He can feel the defensiveness rising in his throat like bile, and he breathes against it. This isn’t the time or place. “I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he says quietly.

“Then what did you come here for?”

“To make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks. I’m not. You can go now.”

He’s getting nowhere with this. He’s doing more harm than good, most likely. He nods once to himself, stepping back. “Alright,” he says softly. “I get it. I’ll give you your space.”

“Wait.”

His eyes snap up to meet Brian’s, and Brian is staring at him with a look of utter desperation.

“Wait. Just…wait.”

John blinks at him expectantly.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. But you can’t tell me things like that.”

“I can’t hide it. I’ve never been able to.”

“I don’t understand you, John,” Brian says, half to himself.

“You think I can’t still love you?” John asks him, making sure to keep his tone hushed and non-confrontational.

“If you love me why would you file for divorce?” Brian asks quietly.

“If you loved me why’d you sleep with her?” John counters, his voice still calm and even.

Brian blinks. “Of course I loved you. I still love you. I always will.”

“Then why?” John asks. Here it is, finally. Here’s this stupid thing they’ve never talked about, that’s been eating at him for the better part of two months. “Why? Why’d you tell her the same thing?”

“I never did. I didn’t love her.”

“Why’d you keep seeing her? Why did you sleep with her in _our_ bed, in _our_ house, in _our—_ ”

“It was a mistake,” Brian says, cutting him off. His eyes are welling up. “I fucked up. It was a mistake. You weren’t—” he starts, and then he catches himself. “I felt like you didn’t care about me anymore. You were always working, and I know I’m the same. I’m a workaholic through and through, but half the time you came home high and drunk and not _yourself_ , not the thoughtful, conscientious person I’ve always known, and you didn’t have time for me. You just looked through me.” He takes a deep breath, sniffling hard. “And I met her and she looked at me like I was something incredible, and it wasn’t love and it wasn’t the same but it felt _good_ after everything. I was unhappy and angry and I’d have done anything for your attention, but you weren’t willing to give it.”

There it is again; his habit of taking things and people for granted.

“And I want to give love into the world,” Brian says, even softer. “I want to give you love unconditionally and endlessly. I wish I could. But when I don’t get something back it hurts. Just a little acknowledgement, that’s all I need. She gave it to me freely, so I made a mistake and went off with her. And now here we are.”

Now here they are. That’s it.

It’s so simple, laid out like this. It’s so silly in retrospect. All this time, all they needed to do was be willing to discuss it.

But now John’s gone and brought them to court. Now Brian’s gone and dug up the financial issues, poked and prodded at John’s right to even have a share in the band’s stock and brought every bit of inequality between the two of them front and center.

Now they have even more issues than they started with.

“You broke my heart when you started seeing her,” he says quietly. “You know that?”

Brian stills. Neither of them move.

“I could deal with the stuff in the studio. I could deal with none of you guys taking me seriously. But when you started seeing her, that was it.” He fiddles with the calluses on his fingertips, picking at them until they ache. “Yeah, I wasn’t sober. I certainly took you for granted. I know that. But I think you guys took me for granted as well. I’m not saying that evens it out or makes it better.” He licks his lips. “I knew the minute it started. You smelled like perfume when you came home, but it wasn’t even that. You seemed so _happy._ That should have been the first sign that I needed to work harder.”

Brian nods silently, and the motion causes his tears to spill over.

“And I didn’t. I didn’t do a thing.” He frowns. “I’m sorry for that.”

The two of them are silent for a long beat. John can’t look at him. He stares at his t-shirt instead, the familiar logo distressed and wearing away after hundreds of washes, and finally recognizes it as his own.

“What are we going to do now?” Brian asks softly.

He’s not sure what they _can_ do. He’s not sure there’s really a way out of the pit they’ve dug. “I don’t know,” he replies, and hears Brian let out a measured breath. “I don’t know. I need to think.”

Brian nods wordlessly. He won’t look at him.

John turns around and walks out the front door. He closes it quietly behind himself and gets back in his car. As he’s pulling out of the driveway he looks back at the house, and he thinks he sees Brian peering out the window on the front door.

When he gets back to the house Freddie is sitting at the table eating a bowl of yogurt.

“Evening drive?” he asks dryly.

“Something like that,” John murmurs. “Why are you up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

John paces hesitantly closer, taking a seat across the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, darling,” Freddie says dismissively. “Not really. I’m just being a hopeless romantic again. You shouldn’t let it bring you down.”

“Neither should you,” John says. “You’ll find someone.”

“Forgive me if your word isn’t exactly inspiring confidence right now.” John snorts out a laugh; he can’t help himself, and a moment later Freddie follows suit. “How was Brian, then?”

That has John stilling. “What makes you think I was talking to Brian?”

“Please. Where else would you have gone?”

That’s fair. “I had to check up on him. You know I did, after everything.”

Freddie shrugs him off. “How was he, then?”

John pauses. He thinks about Brian’s worn face, the circles beneath his eyes, the way his hair hung limp. He licks his lips. “Do you think I’m making the wrong decision?” he asks quietly.

Freddie starts, regarding him with wide eyes. “The wrong decision?”

“Yeah. With this divorce thing and all.”

Freddie is silent, looking him over as he thinks. One of the cats jumps up onto the table as he does, and he runs a hand over its spine absent-mindedly as it lets out a low purr. “If you really think that,” he says slowly, “I think you should start thinking about your options sooner rather than later.”

“What do _you_ think?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“No, I want to know,” he asks, a hint of desperation sinking into his voice. “Please, Fred. I need advice.”

Freddie sighs. “You won’t want my advice. You certainly shouldn’t take it. But as long as you’re asking…I think both of you have a tendency to leap before you look, dear.”

“What should I do?”

Freddie shrugs. “I don’t know. I honestly can’t tell you.”

John doesn’t say anything, and the two of them sit there in silence, the darkness settling even more heavily through the house and the streets outside.

Someone won’t stop ringing the doorbell.

John frowns and tears his eyes away from where he’s cleaning the fingerboard of the Rick. He’d set aside the afternoon to restring it and then run through a few ideas, but the incessant sound of the doorbell is going to drive him insane before he gets the chance. “Phoebe!” he calls.

There’s no answer. The doorbell rings again.

That’s when he remembers that Phoebe and Freddie had mentioned yesterday that they were planning on spending the day shopping. Joe must be out, too—grocery run, or maybe it’s his day off. That leaves John.

He sighs and mutters angrily to himself as he sets his bass down on the window seat, walking into the entrance hall as the doorbell rings again. He rolls his eyes and turns the lock, yanking the door open with an angry greeting already prepared on his lips.

A dripping wet Brian May blinks at him in surprise.

John drags him inside without thinking, shutting the door against the downpour outside. Brian’s only just managed to cram all his curls under his hood, but he still looks cold and one strong gust of wind away from a nasty flu. “Need a towel?” John asks him.

Brian shakes his head, still staring at him in surprise.

“Cup of tea, then?”

Brian blinks.

John sighs, letting the awkward silence stretch for a moment or two. “You’re going to ruin Freddie’s hardwood floor if you stand there dripping on it.”

That seems to make him start. “Where’s Freddie?” he asks. “I came to talk to him.”

“He’s out. It’s just me, I’m afraid.”

“Are you staying here?”

John nods, raising his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know.”

“Now you do,” he replies awkwardly.

Brian blinks.

John blinks back.

Brian takes a breath. “Well,” he says. Then without another word he turns and opens the door, all but leaping outside before closing it swiftly behind himself.

John blinks again. “Well,” he says to the closed door. He turns to walk back into the music room.

He barely makes it halfway there before the front door is opening again behind him.

He turns around again and there Brian is once more.

John barely manages to stifle a disbelieving laugh. “Everything alright?” he asks, then adds sarcastically, “you didn’t forget anything, did you?”

“No, no,” Brian breathes. He shifts awkwardly on his feet as if he’s about to make a break for it again. “Well,” he says once more. “Well, actually I was thinking maybe a cup of tea would be quite nice, if you’re still offering.”

Huh. That’s…different.

John wordlessly walks to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He uses the routine motions of it to help gather his thoughts, distantly listening to Brian take off his jacket and wander slowly through the house as he does.

Brian is _here._ Brian is alone in the house with him, knowingly and willingly, and there’s no discernible reason _why_.

He has to keep his wits about him.

The kettle clicks, and he pours two cups before adding just the right amount of milk to Brian’s without thinking about it. He heads quickly to the music room only to find Brian staring out the window at the grey, rain-stained smear of land that is the garden. He’s got his arms crossed like he’s cold, and he starts at John’s approach before accepting the cup that John holds out to him and warming his hands around the ceramic.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “The grounds look good.”

John shrugs. “Freddie needs a gardener.”

“He could always do it himself.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Do you know Freddie?”

“Alright,” Brian says with a quiet huff of a laugh, “on second thought, maybe he should hire someone.”

John smiles into his mug. “How’s Rog?” he asks.

“Good,” Brian says. “He’s good.”

“Songwriting going well?”

“Yeah, it’s good. You?”

“Can’t complain,” John says, purposefully ignoring thoughts about how his muse seems to have taken a vow of silence.

They linger in another awkward silence for a moment.

“So,” John starts hesitantly. “Can I—”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Brian blurts. “Can we talk?”

John glances at him sideways. “Yeah,” he says slowly.

“I mean without the lawyers present, and all that. I don’t think it really helps at all, sometimes. I think that maybe the best thing for us would be to just…talk. Can we do that?”

“Yeah,” John says again, though this time it comes out soft. “Of course. Yeah.”

Brian’s cheeks are vaguely pink and getting pinker by the minute, and he stares into his mug silently for a moment. “I came to talk to Freddie,” he says. “I thought he’d be the only one I could get an objective opinion from. I forgot, though. You’re always the one I go to when I’m too stuck in my own head. You always have been.”

John remains silent. He stops pretending he’s not staring at Brian. He turns fully toward him and takes in the furrow between his brows, the unhappy crook of his mouth, the way his curls have broken from their tight rings into wide, loose loops, the way they always do when he’s been running his hands through them in thought.

“You said you needed to think,” Brian continues. “And that’s fine, really. I know that’s how you solve problems, but I’m no good at thinking that way. I can’t figure out my own feelings unless I hear them aloud. You know that.”

Silently, John nods.

“I should have paid more attention to you,” Brian starts. “I should have noticed there was something wrong. I should have asked you about it when you first started getting so messed up in the studio. I thought you’d just bring it up, but you never did.”

“No, I should’ve come to you,” John murmurs. “That isn’t on you. I should have told you something was bothering me. I just didn’t.”

“Why not?” Brian asks softly.

John shrugs, glancing outside at the water pooling below the Japanese maple. “I didn’t want to seem weak, I guess. You all handle the attention so well.”

“Was it the success?”

“Success? No.” John rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t even the fame, really. It was the press, all the sudden interviews, people digging into our private lives…Our marriage, even,” he adds. “It felt like there was nothing safe anymore. There was nowhere I could go to just be _weak_ for a little while.”

“You had me,” Brian starts.

“I should’ve, but I deprived myself of that, didn’t I? I worked myself into a corner. I thought I couldn’t trust anyone. I thought I couldn’t even trust myself around _you_.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says simply.

When he turns to look Brian is studying him, eyes sharp like he’s a puzzle. He’s close, their words soft enough to warrant that kind of intimacy. John swears he can feel his warmth from here. “You didn’t want to hurt me?” Brian echoes.

“These haven’t been an easy last few years,” John says slowly. “You know that. It’s not just because of her, and it’s not just because of me, and it’s not just because of this album. You’ve been carrying too much, Bri,” he says, and Brian inhales at the nickname. “I couldn’t give you more. I couldn’t ask you to carry me through this.”

“That’s what I’m for,” Brian murmurs. “I carry you and you carry me.”

John shakes his head ruefully. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“It should.” He licks his lips. “I’ve always admired your strength, but I didn’t marry you because you’re strong. I married you because you’re imperfect and you’re _human_ , and because you make me want to become a stronger, better person. I fell in love with you for your passion and for the way you throw yourself into the things you love. And because you’re smart and dedicated, and you can be a right bitch sometimes,” and he smiles as John breaks off into a wet laugh, “and you fight totally, _horribly_ dirty, but when you choose to do so it’s to protect the things you love. And I wanted to build something with you that we could protect like that together. And then at the end of the day, I wanted to lay down beside you and be the person who got to see all your softness, all your tenderness. I wanted both.”

John puts his mug down on the piano. He can feel his hands trembling, and he clenches them into fists before Brian can notice.

“I didn’t want to be with you for your strength. I certainly didn’t want you to be perfect,” Brian adds quietly.

Of course he didn’t. Above all, the only thing Brian has ever really craved is intimacy—the intangible, impossible goal of being _close_ , being known and appreciated and loved. That’s all he’s ever wanted. “Did you find what you wanted with her?” John asks him.

Brian shakes his head. “Of course not. It was just sex. I swear that’s all it was.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want,” Brian says slowly, “to be close to you. I want to be allowed to love you again, if you let me. I want to be a safe place for you. I want to talk it out, really talk about it. I want you to know that I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. I want us to be honest and I want—” he breaks off. “Fuck, John. I want a million things. I need to know what I’m allowed to have.”

“This isn’t going to work like that,” John says. “You need to call the shots just as much as I am.”

Brian stills. “So this is…what do you mean? Are you—”

“Bri, I can’t keep this up,” John says, and it comes out a little more snappish than he wants. He backtracks quickly when he sees the hurt look on Brian’s face. “I mean that I’ve seen what it’s like to live without you around, and I’m not really interested. I’ve done my thinking. We made some stupid mistakes, I rushed us into this divorce and you took up the challenge just like you always do when I challenge you to something—”

“At least you know me,” Brian mutters.

“I don’t want to do this,” John says. “Alright? I don’t want to do it anymore. I miss you and I don’t want to do it. So tell me you want this back, because I want it back too. We can figure everything else out later.”

Brian is staring him with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You’re sure?” he breathes.

John nods. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

Brian puts his mug down next to John’s own. “Positive? Because if you go back on this I don’t think I’ll—”

“Bri, I’m sure, alright? I’m fucking sorry. I’ve never wanted—”

Brian blinks at him. “Prove it.”

And John already knows what to do without even thinking about it. He leans in halfway and lets his eyes flick down to Brian’s lips—red and soft the way they get when he’s been biting at them—before flicking back up to his eyes, making his intent clear. Brian just nods minutely, a tiny motion, and so John closes that last gap of space and presses their lips together.

It’s chaste as anything. It’s polite, almost innocent, their bodies only touching in that one place. But Brian’s lips feel the same as they always do and he sighs into the kiss, long and grateful like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and the next second his hand is coming up to run through John’s hair, sending a shiver down John’s spine when a warm pall grazes his ear. John lets his own hands run down his sides until he can settle his palms against Brian’s hips.

He loses himself in it for a long moment. Just having Brian this close again makes his head spin, and no doubt Brian is in the same place if the way he’s pressing closer is any indication. John can feel him holding back, trying to let John take this at his own pace, but he lets out the smallest, breathiest whimper when John bites at his lower lip and he knows that won’t last for long.

He never thought he’d be able to do this again, and he revels in all the little sounds he can draw out of him.

He swears he can feel the little shudder that goes down Brian’s spine when he dips his fingers under the back of his waistband and runs them across the skin there. And there Brian is suddenly, letting out a moan and pressing into him, licking his way hotly past John’s lips in a way that makes his knees weak and then tracing the tip of his tongue over the roof of his mouth. He’s stepping into John’s space even further, their chests pressed together, John forced to tilt his head back to compensate for the angle. He hooks a hand around Brian’s neck in an effort to get closer, and Brian groans.

He stumbles backward, his back making contact with the piano. It’s only then that Brian pulls away, pressing their cheeks together, and John shivers as Brian breathes against his ear.

“I missed you so much,” Brian sighs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” John kisses his cheek, and then is met with the long expanse of Brian’s neck and realizes it’s a damned shame he hasn’t had the chance to taste that skin in a while. He goes to work on him immediately, feeling Brian’s breath hitch. “We’ll talk about it, alright? Just—fuck. I want to be close to you.”

Brian lets out a little moan as John nips at his jawbone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses the mark that he’s working into Brian’s skin before starting on one a little lower, in the spot that he knows always makes Brian squirm. It’s no different today; he bites him sharply and feels Brian give an aborted little movement forward. That’s the power in loving someone, in knowing someone; he still knows Brian’s body even better than he knows his own. He always will, probably. “Can I? Please?”

Brian is nodding before he’s even done talking. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, yes, please.”

He forgot how good Brian sounds when he begs like that. It always comes so easily to him.

John drags him down into another kiss, dragging their hips together with a hand on the small of Brian’s back, and Brian gasps into his mouth. John takes advantage of it and licks into him, lets himself taste him for one long, glorious moment before pulling away and taking in the way Brian already looks thoroughly wrecked, his eyelids heavy and his mouth bruised.

“Come on,” John says, slipping out from between him and the piano and tangling their fingers together to tug him toward the guestroom.

The window is open, protected from the rain by an overhead high above, but the sound of the weather outside and the heavy, humid heat of the summer storm make the air in the room feel comfortably thick. He didn’t make his bed this morning, and the white cotton sheets are still a tangled mess. He gets Brian between him and the bed and then shoves him lightly backward until Brian is bouncing down onto the mattress.

Brian blinks up at him. His eyes flutter shut when John steps into the space between his knees and runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it back into handfuls on either side of his head before tilting his head up. The change in height gives him an advantage, and Brian lets out a little moan as John kisses him, languid and possessive.

He pulls back to look at him, and Brian is looking up at him with hooded, honest eyes. It hits him all at once—a rush of feeling, of affection and protectiveness. “I love you,” he whispers, and Brian’s eyes flutter shut again like he’s savoring it.

John nudges his knees a little further apart before reaching down to go to work on Brian’s zipper. Brian’s eyes blink open when he realizes what John is doing, and then he’s sitting up to help John pull them out just enough to free his cock. John squeezes him lightly through his pants before pulling him free, already nearly fully hard, a familiar weight in his hand. All at once he wants to devour him.

Brian is squirming under the scrutiny. His eyes go wide as John drops to his knees.

“You okay?” John asks him, just to make sure.

Brian just nods a little helplessly and threads his fingers gently through John’s hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and John snorts before leaning in.

He pushes his foreskin back and licks him—just gentle motions, keeping his tongue soft and pliant, and Brian lets out a long sigh, his fingers scratching gently against his scalp even as he throws his other hand backward on the mattress to support himself. He forgot how fun Brian is to tease, and part of him almost can’t believe that. He’d taken such joy out of it before. How had something like that slipped his mind?

Brian moans softly. “Baby, please. More. Come on.”

John glances up at him, his dazed face and bitten lips, and takes him into his mouth.

Brian groans, his head falling back briefly, eyes shut, and John pulls away and waits for him to make eye contact again before he starts working him for real, bobbing his head over the length of him and pausing now and again to suck at his head in a way that always, without fail, tears a string of curses from Brian’s throat. The hand in his hair has moved on from gentle scratches and ruffles to tugging on handfuls, fingers clenching nearly painfully if it weren’t for the way the feeling goes straight to his cock, and he can’t help the little moan he lets out as he bobs further down onto Brian’s cock.

“Baby,” Brian breathes, “you’re too good at this. Honey, fuck.”

John sucks hard and runs his tongue along the underside of Brian’s cock, and Brian groans. All at once the hand in his hair is tugging him hard, pulling away, and he lets out a little sigh as he goes.

“I want to finish with you,” Brian whispers, cheeks flaming. “Please? Can I?”

“Yes,” John says without even hesitating. He knows what he wants from him; he pushes him backward. “Fuck. Come on.”

Brian strips rapidly and John isn’t far behind him, heedless of where his clothes land as he discards them. He’s a vision when John finally climbs onto the bed beside him, his pale skin creamy against the white sheets, his dark hair contrasting beautifully against the pillows. His cock is hard and red against his stomach and his eyes are glazed over, the gentle noise of his breath mingling with the sound of the rain outside, and John can’t believe he almost threw this—this trust, this love and intimacy—away.

He crawls closer until he’s straddling him, Brian’s hands automatically coming up to hold his hips. John reaches for the bottle of lube in the nightstand and opens it, preparing to squeeze it onto his own fingers, but he looks at Brian when Brian lets out a sad little sound.

“Can I?” Brian asks him.

“If you want to,” John says, handing the bottle to him.

Brian huffs. “Of course I want to. I always want to.”

“Bold words.”

“You don’t believe me?” Brian says with raised eyebrows, the challenge clear in his voice as he warms the lube on his fingers before nudging at John’s thighs to get him to move up closer. “You don’t think I love it?”

“I believe you,” John says. In truth, he can’t focus on anything other than the way the pads of Brian’s fingers are tracing around his rim.

“Good,” Brian murmurs, watching his face closely. It’s John’s turn to squirm under the scrutiny now, but that just makes Brian’s lips quirk up. He presses one finger in just far enough to pass the first ring of muscles, teasing him. “You know I always want to make you come apart.”

“So do it,” John breathes, pushing back on him.

Brian shakes his head, and he’s actually smiling now. “Maybe I’d rather just watch you like this.”

John glares at him halfheartedly. “Brian—”

Brian slides his finger deeper smoothly, until it’s up to his knuckle. He watches John gasp, fascinated, before pulling it nearly all the way out and building up a slow rhythm. “I don’t know how I could resist you,” he says. “You always look so good like this.”

It’s slick and wet and not nearly enough, but the smooth rhythm of it makes John feel loose and messy already. He’d forgotten how long and slender Brian’s fingers are, perfect at teasing him to within an inch of his life.

“You’re so pretty for me.”

“Brian,” John gasps, half warning.

Brian raises his eyebrows innocently. “Yes? Is that not enough?”

John glares at him flatly. He knows it’s not. They’ve been fucking each other for a decade now; of course he knows.

“If you want more you’re gonna have to use your words.”

“Brian,” John says again, and it _is_ a warning this time.

Brian has the nerve to laugh ag him, a breathy little sound. “Yes, my love?”

His finger just barely brushes John’s prostate before retreating again, and John gasps as his eyes fall shut. When he manages to pry them open again Brian is as focused on him as ever, his eyes sharp and observant, and he bites his own lip as he repeats the motion again, tearing a little gasp from John’s throat, and then again and again until he gets a moan.

He can’t hold back, is the thing. It’s just enough to send lazy curls of pleasure through his stomach but not nearly enough to get him anywhere past that. Brian’s always been particularly good at that—at giving him just enough to send him out of his mind—and the little jabs of pleasure continue until he lets himself fall forward to rest his forehead on Brian’s collarbone, his moans hitching like sobs.

Brian lets up then, running a hand up to hold the back of his neck and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Alright,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.” And then he’s pulling out for a minute to pour more lube onto his fingers before pressing in two at a time, and John sighs gratefully at the stretch.

Brian doesn’t waste time this time around, keeping up a steady rhythm that has his rim aching pleasantly from the feeling as he keeps steady pressure on his spot. When he pauses to circle it with the pads of his fingers John arches up into it, moaning into his neck before catching sight of the mark he’d been leaving there earlier and mouthing at it lazily. That has Brian sighing out a moan and letting his hand drift down between John’s shoulder blades to pull them even closer together as he works in a third finger.

John groans, rocking back onto Brian’s fingers for all of a minute before tugging his wrist gently away and reaching for a condom. “I’m ready,” he says to Brian when he gets a questioning glance.

Brian blinks at him. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s been a while. Or, I don’t know if it’s been a while. I just don’t—”

“It’s been a while,” John says flatly because, really? Does he really seem like the type to go after a rebound before the divorce has even gone through? “It’s alright. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” Brian says doubtfully, breath hitching as John rolls the condom onto him and coats his cock with lube.

“I wanna feel you stretching me out,” John tells him, pitching his voice low. “I want to feel it. I want to feel you afterward. Alright?”

Brian’s breath hitches for a completely different reason as he watches John with dark eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers.

John smirks to himself and guides Brian into him carefully. He presses down onto him slowly, eyes trained on Brian’s chest until Brian cups his cheek in one hand and guides his head up so that their eyes meet. John can’t look away then, rising up halfway before pushing down again, taking the rest of him in one smooth motion. Brian is watching him raptly, eyes looking as dazed as John feels, his cheeks hollowed as he pants. John sighs and rocks against him, staring into his eyes all the while as he gets used to the stretch.

When he feels like he can manage it he leans down to capture Brian’s mouth. Brian sucks on his lip lightly before dragging his teeth across it, no doubt leaving his mouth swollen and red from the way Brian stares at it afterward. His eyelids droop even lower as John rocks against him once more. “You are so beautiful,” Brian breathes. “Christ, John. Look at you, baby.”

John smiles to himself, raising up a mere inch before dropping down. The drag of Brian inside of him sends pleasure racing up his spine, leaving him breathless and dizzy, and he builds a rhythm as Brian’s hands steady his hips all the while.

It’s not enough, though, not quite, so he leans forward against Brian’s chest, splaying his hands out against his torso and pushing himself down and back onto his cock, the stretch of it making him gasp. He groans for real as Brian finally plants his feet and thrusts up into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, the head of his cock rubbing against his prostate.

“Like that?” Brian asks him quietly, eyes fixed once more on where John’s lips are hanging open as he gasps. “Is that good?”

“Fuck,” John hisses. Pleasure is building lazily at the base of his spine but somehow it’s still not enough. He wants to squirm suddenly, wants to tug at the sheets until he gets what he needs—or just wants to tug at Brian, tug him closer, always closer. “Bri, I need you.”

“You’ve got me,” Brian replies with a hazy smile. He drags John down onto his cock, sending a shudder wracking through John’s frame as he tries to chase the pleasure down.

“No, I _need_ you to…” he starts, then loses his train of thought.

Brian’s smile turns from teasing to warm, his eyes full of wonder. “You want me to take care of you?”

John nods helplessly.

“I’ve got you. Come here.”

He hooks a hand around the back of John’s neck until he can pull him into a kiss, warm and slow, their tongues sliding together in a way that makes John’s brain promptly flatline. It’s enough that he doesn’t notice Brian shifting them gently, carefully holding John’s knee so it doesn’t get bruised as he rolls them over on the crisp sheets. He settles John carefully against the pillows, still inside him, their mouths still joined warmly, and it’s not the first time by far that he’s pulled that move but it still nearly makes John swoon. He always feels a little dizzy when he gets Brian like this, focused and careful and loving.

Brian kisses him one last time, tugging one of John’s legs up around his waist and pushing his other knee up toward the mattress, John’s knee hooked around his bicep. Their faces are inches apart, the hazel of his eyes unavoidable, his hair tickling John’s neck until John gathers it to one side for him carefully.

“Okay?” Brian murmurs, kissing him sweetly.

John nods. “Yeah,” he breathes into the space between them. “Yeah.”

Brian pulls out slowly before thrusting in the same way, slow but firm and purposeful, and sparks explode behind his eyelids. He does it again and again, the same slow drag, predictable and mind-numbing until John is riding the waves of it, until he can’t help the way his body arches toward him on each thrust and his gasps fall into time with the motions.

Brian plants his lips over his adam’s apple. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

John gasps, writhing under Brian’s touch and careful attention. He can’t stop the shivers that are racing up his spine, the way his entire body feels like a live wire just like it feels like he’s melting under the pleasure. But Brian is there to keep him together, to hold onto him and keep giving him this; Brian is there for him, with his loving eyes and gentle voice.

“You feel so good for me,” Brian murmurs to him. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” John breathes. The pleasure is getting to him, working into his brain and taking the space of all his other thoughts. All he can do is hold his breath for the next thrust and then whimper when it comes, perfectly slow and deliberate and hitting all his buttons. He can’t stop saying it suddenly, can’t stop breathing it out again and again. “Love you, love you. I love you.”

Brian kisses him gently, possibly to quiet him or possibly to soothe him. John doesn’t know. The next moment Brian is ducking to bite at his neck, and John’s mouth falls open on a silent moan.

“You close for me, sweetheart?” Brian breathes into his ear. His breath is hot, and John can’t help the way his hands clench in his hair. “You’re so gorgeous like this. Want to finish for me?”

“Please, please.”

“Yeah,” Brian murmurs, tucking an arm between them to get a hand around John’s cock and working him in quick motions against the continually slow pace of his thrusts. “Yeah, Deaks. So pretty. Let me see you, come on.”

He continues babbling in John’s ear and John can’t even make out his words; he can’t even make up from down, can’t make out his own thoughts other than that the sudden loud whines are coming from him. He’s gasping for air, head thrown back as he twitches and tenses, his leg tightening around Brian’s waist like a vice as he arches up into him, and the just as he feels himself come Brian’s hand on his cock slows down to match the pace of his thrusts, now more forceful as he presses into him over and over.

He’s hitting his prostate harder now, hand milking John’s cock, and he sees white as he squeezes his eyes shut and writhes through it. It feels like it’s being dragged out of him, feels like it’s going on for forever, and when it finally eases enough that he can focus again all he can take in is the pleasure still racing through his blood, Brian’s hand still working him slowly and the way that he’s wrapped himself around Brian, keeping the two of them pressed together close and warm and intimate.

“Was that good?” Brian breathes into his ear. “You feel good?”

“Jesus,” John hisses, chest heaving. “Fuck, Brian. Come on, give it to me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

That’s all it takes for Brian to start fucking into him for real, his pace suddenly quick even as he carefully avoids John’s oversensitive prostate. It doesn’t take more than six thrusts before he’s groaning into John’s neck.

John tugs on his hair sharply, wrapping it around his knuckles. “I love you,” he whispers straight into Brian’s ear, and Brian moans his name as he comes.

He takes a minute to come back to himself, arched over John’s body and holding him tight. John threads his fingers through his curls, warm and damp with sweat toward crook of his neck, and breathes in the familiar smell of Brian’s cologne combining with the warm brine of sex.

After a long moment Brian pulls out far enough to tug the condom off and toss it lazily over the side of the bed. John keeps gently cupping the back of his neck even as Brian moves to roll off of him, and a moment later Brian seems to understand and settles half on top of him instead.

His nose is a little cold when Brian presses it into the side of his throat before moving to kiss and nibble at the skin there, and John tugs sharply at his hair when the motion tickles and makes him laugh. Brian laughs too, a quiet little sound against his ear, and then settles them together carefully with one leg between John’s own.

John strokes his palm down between his shoulders and pulls Brian impossibly closer, ducking his head around to reach whatever skin he can. It’s the space right beside Brian’s eye, and he kisses it as gently as possible, feather-light and soft.

Brian sighs contentedly and leans up until he can kiss him on the lips sleepily. “Are we going to talk about it?” he asks.

John winces, letting his head flop backward against the pillows. “Oh, don’t ruin this.”

“There’s nothing to ruin,” Brian says softly. “Nothing at all.”

“I don’t want to get into the legal issues,” John argues.

“Then we won’t,” Brian murmurs, and presses a kiss to his jaw. “That can all be worked out later. Whatever it is we’re going to do, anyway.”

“Then we’re still going through with it?”

Brian hesitates. “If you want to,” he says slowly. “I think—that is, I think it might be a good idea to think about having more specific song rights. I’m not saying that for me. I don’t think it’s fair that I get any sort of claim to your achievements.”

“And I shouldn’t have any claim to yours,” John agrees quietly. “You’re right. We should’ve negotiated that from the start.”

“The money doesn’t matter to me so much,” Brian continues. “It never really has. We have more than enough of it.”

John nods. “That leaves the rest, then.”

“The house?”

“The marriage.”

Brian hesitates again. “Do you still want this?” he murmurs.

“Of course I do. I always have.”

Brian falls quiet at that, tracing his fingers thoughtfully over John’s knuckles. It gives John a minute to think, breathing in the smell of him and listening to the rain fall outside. They nearly broke all of this beyond repair, but as it is they’re hanging on by a thread.

Maybe more—just a little more. Maybe it can grow, if they cultivate it.

“If we’re going to try to make this work we’ll need to be careful about it,” Brian murmurs. “I’m sorry for what happened—for what we both did. I’m so, _so_ sorry, but all the mistakes we made, we made because what we were feeling was real.”

“We need to be more honest,” John supplies. “I need to be honest with you when I’m unhappy. And I know it’s not going to come easily for me. I’ve never been good at that. I’ll try, though, as long as you’re honest with me when you need something. I’ll give it to you freely.”

Brian nods. “I’ll do it. I’ll get better.”

John pauses for a moment. “If you ever cheat again—”

“I’m not going to.”

“Good,” John murmurs. “But if you do, I want you to talk to me about it. I’m not just going to jump straight into divorce because I don’t _want_ to get divorced, but if this happens again we’ll need to have a conversation about it.”

Brian nods against his shoulder. “I think maybe we should look into marriage counselling.”

“Okay,” John murmurs back, and just like that they have a plan.

The next time they sit down in the conference room it’s side by side, and North and Gordon are sitting across from them.

“We thought we’d come to you, seeing as you’re already familiar with the case anyway,” John starts.

North raises her eyebrows. “You could say that, yes.”

“The divorce is off,” Brian says, “but we’re still looking at dividing up the music rights. Queen is going on break for a little while after this album is released, and we were hoping you could open a dialogue with Reinhold Mack while he’s not too busy. He’s our sound engineer, and he knows who did what song practically better than we do, at this point. He’d be able to help with dividing up the rights fairly.”

“So the divorce is off completely?” Gordon asks slowly.

“You know what they say,” North murmurs dryly. “Most divorces are settled privately by the two clients.”

“Rather,” Gordon sighs. He shuffles his papers. “We can start on that, then. We’ll draft up something that seems to be fair, consult with the two of you separately, and then see if we can come to a conclusion for this whole thing. It shouldn’t take longer than two weeks.”

“Make it three,” North says. “The two of you could use a break from all this, if you ask me.”

“That’s perfect,” Brian says. “Would you mind if we went out of town?”

“Where would you be going?”

John looks to Brian uncertainly. Fortunately Brian picks up the ball. “We’ve been to see a marriage counsellor,” he says softly. “She said we need a reset. Some time apart, because we’ve been stuck in so much stress and tension that we forgot how to be—I mean, the point is we’re probably gonna each take a short vacation. Alone.”

“Done,” North says. “If that’s what you need then we can work around it. It shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll just call you in to review everything at once when you arrive back in town.”

Brian nods to himself, and John lets out a breath.

Forward. They’re moving forward.

Freddie pops a bottle of champagne in the studio the day that Hot Space is finally released. It’s a horrible album—it’s the worst album John has ever heard, let alone been a part of—and when Freddie pulls him closer into a jaunty salsa as Dancer plays in the background, John finds he can’t stop laughing.

Two hours later he’s thoroughly trashed and the joke is on everyone else as he piles into John’s backseat, Brian at the wheel, the three of them heading off in the direction of Garden Lodge. Freddie won’t stop crooning the same verse of (Just Like) Starting Over in their ears as if he’s forgotten the rest of the song exists, and when John looks at Brian he’s got a tiny smile on his face, his eyes shiny and a little too wet.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Brian whispers into the cocoon of their bed as they fall asleep. He likes the new mound of springy curls on the top of John’s head—hadn’t had time to explore it before they’d separated—and revels in rubbing his fingers through it absently.

He chooses somewhere warm and tropical and books a ticket.

The four of them drive to the airport together. Only Roger and Freddie are going the same place, but it doesn’t really matter. It feels good to arrive side by side to Heathrow the way they used to do in the early days.

“Safe travels, darlings,” Freddie says, dragging Roger, Crystal and Phoebe off toward a jet waiting across the tarmac. “Send my regards.”

“To whom?” John calls. “You’re the one going stateside.”

“Mm. Even so.”

John laughs and turns back to Brian, who’s watching him warmly. “When are you off, then?”

“An hour or so,” Brian murmurs.

“I’ll have to leave you, then.”

“Bali?”

John snorts. “Malta. You?”

“Tenerife,” Brian says softly, and John smiles.

“It’ll be good for you.”

“I think so.” Brian hesitates. “I’ll miss you.”

John licks his lips. He doesn’t know what to say, though; there’s not really anything to say. He leans up to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmurs. “See you on the other side?”

“See you on the other side.”

He studies him a minute longer. Brian just gives him a small smile back. It’s a tiny gesture, but it makes something in John’s chest ease. They’re going to be alright.

He kisses him one more time, long enough that the warmth of his mouth lingers on John’s own. Then he turns around and starts across the tarmac toward the waiting jet, gesturing for Ratty to follow him. He takes a deep breath and he doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody once told me I don’t have the capacity for ugliness. I do, I just project it all into fic. So here you go, have some feelings and bullshit! Hope you enjoyed since I’m not terribly happy with this one, but I figured I’d put it up anyway. If you like it let me know what you think :-)


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